No Rain
by Nerikla
Summary: Ordinarily, Mush loved the nights that it rained.


Ordinarily, Mush loved the nights that it rained.

The windows were always drawn tightly, reassuringly somehow, against the howling wind. The unclean glass was streaked by fat raindrops that would leave marks in the morning, unsightly things, streaks that would later obscure the sunlight and draw dust. It was the sound of the rain that he liked the most, the gentle pit-patter; and then, the sound when it thunder-stormed, the hard, sharp pings that rattled the windows.

On the nights that it rained, like this one, a sense of good-natured comradery prevailed until someone decided to offset the balance. The boys were cooped up, restless, unable to wander into the streets and cause mischief elsewhere. Fights often broke out and action was always assured. The youngest boys were flighty on these nights, nervous, their eyes darting to the comfort of their beds. Mush knew that they probably wanted to bury themselves beneath their worn blankets; the older newsboys, however, would have none of this babyish behavior. Blankets would not block the thunder out - they all knew that. There was simply no sense in coddling anyone who believed otherwise.

A particularly loud crash of thunder made Boots, an unfortunate onlooker, jerk forwards in surprise. One of the boy's dark elbows connected with Skittery's hand of cards, causing them to fall out of his hands and neatly onto the card table. They were easily readable as two sets of pairs.

"Fuckin' hell, Boots! That was a good hand, too, you stupid shit!" Skittery snarled. It was true that the hand was spectacular in consideration of Skittery's usually lackluster poker talent; a quick glance made most of the other players suspicious that the boy had somehow been cheating, perhaps with Specs, who was looking at the scattered hand with terrifically unconvincing surprise.

"Lay off the kid," Racetrack frowned, arching an eyebrow as he eyed the cards, "an' we'll just say that you folded."

"Folded? How is that fair?" Skittery demanded in outrage. This hand would have been the first time that he had ever drawn even after a card game.

Racetrack glanced up, his gaze thoughtful, a crease appearing between his two thick eyebrows. He turned to the boy seated beside him and shrugged a shoulder magnanimously. "Gee, I dunno. Sounds fair to me, don't it, Blink?"

"Fair as your mom's tits, Race," the boy agreed readily enough, grinning.

"It's not Skit's fault that Boots pisses himself every time he hears a fuckin' raindrop," Specs pointed out unhelpfully. The prospect of a fight based around the black newsboy's honor seemed far more appealing than defending himself against accusations of coordinated cheating.

"As opposed to you, Specs? Ain't you the one who nearly pisses every time the Delanceys look your way?" Blink pointed out, his grin still wide, clearly finding all of this engaging. He lowered his cigarette and pointedly brushed Skittery's fallen cards onto the floor, ignoring all grumbled protests and amused snickers.

This gesture was clearly far too damaging to Spec's pride. He stood up abruptly, causing the rickety stool he'd been seated on to creak, his words harsh and leering, "Why, Blink? What's this? You wanna start somethin'?"

"Yeah," Blink replied slowly, still smiling, still seated, "yeah, maybe I do."

"Three to one Blink soaks 'im!"

Mush had paid very little attention to this interchange up until this point, preferring to watch the rain as it trailed down the windowpanes. He had no head for cards, and besides, found the bottle of rum being passed around far more engaging than pieces of paper with hearts and diamonds on them.

It was regrettable that on a night like this, a night washed fresh and clean by such a multitude of water, that these two boys had chosen to pick a fight with each other. Even though Mush hadn't been paying much attention to the actual card game, he was fairly certain that Blink and Specs hadn't even been involved in the original argument.

Just like that, the room was filled with boys all calling out different odds and placing bets. Most were laughing, encouraging and egging on, eager to witness this fight, eager to witness any fight, really. Blink merely smiled up at the other boy, silently challenging him, cocking his head as though he hadn't ever quite seen such a spectacle before.

Specs made the first move. He hit Blink squarely in the jaw, which provoked the boy into action. He rolled his head with the punch, shaking it slightly as though to clear his vision, and leaped up. Everyone scrambled out of the way, shoving chairs and tables so that they would not be broken. The odds were fairly even; everyone knew that Blink was good in a fight, but Specs was taller and more indignant. Both, as Racetrack laughingly pointed out, had vision handicaps, which complicated matters. It would be a tough call.

Mush took the opportunity to hog the bottle of rum to himself, throwing it back. He tried not to wince at the taste, mostly for the sake of his own pride. Straight alcohol made his eyes water, but it also made his belly feel warm and full. On nights like these, gloriously rainy nights, a little rum went a long way.

The thunder merely added to the theatrics of this fight. Both boys fought in earnest; this scrap, everyone knew, had been coming for a long time. It had more to do with the fact that these two boys had been selling their papers on the same two streets. Kid Blink always maintained that he'd had the spot first, but Specs liked to point out that it was unusual (not right, even) for a newsboy to stay in the same territory for years and years. They'd nearly come to blows before over this dispute, and now, it seemed, they'd deemed the time right. The sounds of flesh upon flesh were drowned out by the hooting bystanders, all of whom knew there was far more at stake here than pride. In all honesty, the fight should have been broken up by now, but Jack was visiting the whorehouses near the bridge tonight, and despite his orders for them to play nicely, no one wanted to end this entertainment.

Mush realized belatedly that someone had come to join him at the window. He had a decent view of the fight, and doubtless this spot had a clear advantage because there was rum easily accessible.

It was Boots.

"I didn't mean to start it," he said, somewhat apologetically. He knew that Blink and Mush were best friends, and he sure as hell would never dare to offer such an apology to Blink. He trusted that that the message would be relayed.

Mush nodded, taking another swig, and passed the bottle to Boots in a gesture of silent forgiveness. He leaned back against the dirty window ledge, watching the flurry of fists, eyeing Skittery's bloody nose with detached interest.

"It's just thunder, Boots," he said after a long silence. The shouts drowned out their conversation; his eyes remained riveted on the fight, so anyone watching would think that they were merely commentating or placing bets.

"I know," the black boy said uncomfortably, wincing as another roll of thunder sounded, "but I doan' have to like it."

"We all gotta grow up sometime," Mush said, perhaps a touch more cruelly than anticipated, softening his words with, "might as well start now. Y'know?"

Boots scowled in reply.

"I mean it," and he found that he truly did, found himself speaking with a puzzling amount of conviction, "it's just stupid. That's all."

"What's stupid is how you like listenin' to it. Doan' think no one's noticed. It's not right."

Perhaps it was the alcohol, but suddenly Mush felt his face growing warm. He drew himself up, pulling his shoulders back, and stared down at the younger boy, his eyes dark and shocked.

"Not _right_?" Mush repeated, suddenly sounding old, even to himself, old and tired and worn. He turned his gaze back to the fight, where suddenly his best friend was scrabbling, horizontally, on the dirty floor with another friend. The scrap had gotten severely worse in only a few minutes.

Boots shrugged and made his way through the crowd of shouting boys so that he could get a better view. He was short, and standing in the back of everyone made things difficult to watch.

Ordinarily, Mush loved the nights it rained. Tonight, he felt betrayed by the precipitation, betrayed by his friends and the nine-year-old boy whose insult he had accepted without anger, without even a scowl or a punch. Instead of anger, he realized that he felt pity for the boy, who had been forced to grow up so suddenly, never allowed to give into childish whims, never allowed to even hide under his stupid blanket.

He felt pity for them all, and even worse, for himself. It was terrible, almost unbearable. Compelled to do something, anything to make this emotion cease, he unlocked the window and forced it open, careful not to break the hinges because he knew he would never have the money to pay for repairs.

He stuck a hand out into the rain and felt the cold drops on his hand.

After a moment, he withdrew the hand and hastily shut the window. He elbowed his way into the onlookers and took a spot next to Racetrack, his face flushed, his gaze almost wild.

"Relax, Mush. Blink's soakin' him good," Racetrack crowed, mistaking the expression on his friend's face for something else.

"Good," Mush repeated dumbly, watching as Kid Blink took a heavy blow to the chest, but not really seeing, "good."

- - - -

(This story is a really weird way to come back to Newsie fanfiction, but it just came out of my head. So, hello! I'm back. 3 I'm not really happy with some of these characterizations – however – the concept was interesting to me.

Thanks for reading.)


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